


the secret of your great strength

by Lies_Unfurl



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bucky Barnes Has Panic Attacks, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes's Hair, Come Marking, Comeplay, Crying, Crying Bucky Barnes, Dissociation, Forced Orgasm, Gang Rape, Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Party, Hair Kink, Hair-pulling, Haircuts, Humiliation, Hurt Bucky Barnes, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Self-Hatred, Spitroasting, Touch-Starved, Verbal Humiliation, Victim Blaming, utter misuse of Biblical quotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:20:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25388932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lies_Unfurl/pseuds/Lies_Unfurl
Summary: Bucky really likes having long hair. Unfortunately, this fact doesn't escape the group of HYDRA agents that take him prisoner.(or: the 100% non-canonical reason why Bucky has short hair during The Falcon and the Winter Soldier.)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Hydra Agents, James "Bucky" Barnes/Jack Rollins, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 45
Kudos: 196





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ this prompt.](https://hydratrashmeme.dreamwidth.org/2807.html?thread=6598903) Please heed the tags/warnings. The explicit HTP content comes in the third chapter, but there are references to past noncon throughout the first two as well.

_Then [Delilah] said to him, “How can you say, ‘I love you,’ when you won’t confide in me? This is the third time you have made a fool of me and haven’t told me the secret of your great strength.” With such nagging she prodded him day after day until he was sick to death of it._

_So he told her everything. “No razor has ever been used on my head,” he said, “because I have been a Nazirite dedicated to God from my mother’s womb. If my head were shaved, my strength would leave me, and I would become as weak as any other man.”_

_When Delilah saw that he had told her everything, she sent word to the rulers of the Philistines, “Come back once more; he has told me everything.” So the rulers of the Philistines returned with the silver in their hands. After putting him to sleep on her lap, she called for someone to shave off the seven braids of his hair, and so began to subdue him. And his strength left him._

Judges 16, New International Version

* * *

The thing was, one of the first voluntary decisions that Bucky made about his body in seventy years was that he wanted to keep his hair long.

It happened before he even knew his name, in the HYDRA-owned safehouse halfway between DC and Baltimore that he’d fled to after leaving Steve Rogers on the bank of the Potomac. He showered and washed his wounds as best he could, and shed the conspicuous tac-gear for civvies.

Afterwards, he’d stood in front of the mirror, scissors in hand, and…

And he’d stopped.

There was a target on his back bigger than Captain America’s shield. HYDRA would want him for his traitorous behavior. The US would want him for almost killing their most iconic national treasure. Governments all the world around would want him once the truth got out about all the people he’d killed, most of whom he couldn’t even remember at that point. They’d all be looking for a man with a metal arm, blue eyes, and long hair.

Of those three traits, the hair was, by far, the easiest to change. It was stupid not to cut it, really. Even with all the holes in his brain, he was pretty sure that HYDRA had just let it grow out because no one wanted to get close enough to give it a trim. The length was just another reminder of all the decisions he hadn’t been allowed to make for seven decades.

But even so…

He reached up and hesitantly ran his human hand through the strands, tugging apart knots. It reeked of the chemical smell of cheap shampoo, but at least it wasn’t sweaty or greasy anymore.

The truth was that he liked it. He liked how it offered a curtain between him and the outside world. He liked how it felt when he tucked it behind his ear. And he liked the soothing way his fingers slid through the untangled strands, something comforting in the smooth motion, the way the pads of his fingers lingered on his scalp.

Fuck it, he thought suddenly and fiercely. HYDRA had taken everything else away from him, had stolen things he couldn’t even remember, since they’d gotten his memory too. Why shouldn’t he keep one of the few good things they’d given him? Hadn’t he decided when he’d walked away from the riverbank that his body would be his own from here on out?

And if that choice held true, its implications went beyond that he could choose who he fought, who he killed, who he fucked. It also meant that he controlled his appearance. Not HYDRA. Just him.

So when Bucky left that safehouse, his hair had been as long as was when he entered. And later, when his recon led him back to the museum in DC and he’d seen the man with short hair and a face that looked like his, he felt even more confident in his decision. He wasn’t that man anymore. He didn’t want to pretend that he was.

Sniper-steady hands made trimming his own hair easy (and truth be told, it gave him a small, spiteful burst of pleasure to know that he repurposed a skill HYDRA used solely for killing into something so self-indulgent as keeping himself looking sharp). Sometimes he had to cut it shorter than he’d like for the sake of blending in, but it always stayed at least down to his chin. Even when it really would’ve been easier to just shave it off, like after the lice incident in Minsk.

His memories grew back along with his hair, and Bucky realized that maybe he’d always been a bit vain. Spending half an hour in front of the mirror trying to get the style just right, Steve cajoling him, impatient for their date. Ignoring all the Howlies laughing at him for spitting on his hand and trying to slick it back, even though it had been weeks since any of them had taken a shower.

Waking up from a nightmare after Azzano in their shared tent, Steve’s hands petting his hair as he’d whispered, “It’s okay, Buck, I’m right here. You can go back to sleep now.”

He started doing it himself one night six months or so after he’d run from HYDRA, when he kept slipping into a shallow sleep that immediately brought with it a chorus of people he knew he’d killed. There was no cohesive narrative: just slit throats, bloated faces, blow-up foreheads leaking brain matter as the mouths gaped. Fleeing proved impossible; any way he turned just brought more people whose names he’d probably never knew. He’d jerk awake, be too exhausted to actually get up, and then fall back asleep. And then the cycle would begin again.

It was after the third or fourth time that he broke. Curled up on a thin mattress in a filthy apartment outside Prague, tears prickling his eyes because he was just so fucking _tired_ and wanted so badly to sleep, he’d reached up without thinking and tangled his right hand in his hair. He rubbed the skin there, small circles just like Steve used to, and then he’d tried running his fingers down through the long strands.

The sensation wasn’t the same as someone else touching him, and his hair was greasy and knotted—personal hygiene hadn’t been high on his priority list lately. But even so, there was something soothing in the repetitive motion. In how the gentle pull on his scalp made all the nerves there buzz. How his hair got softer, smoother as he combed it out.

It wasn’t until the next morning that he’d realized he’d fallen asleep while brushing his fingers through his hair, and if there had been any nightmares that time, they hadn’t been bad enough to wake him. And so that became his go-to routine on the nights when he absolutely needed rest that wouldn’t come.

Bucky didn’t let himself do it often, of course. He didn’t deserve comfort, he knew that well; he’d forfeited his right to pleasure and gentle things the moment he’d shot his first mark for HYDRA. But in those moments of desperation, when he hadn’t slept for more than a few hours in weeks, when he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep going on and ridding the world of HYDRA’s evil if he didn’t get some goddamn rest, he allowed himself that one security blanket. Stroking his own hair until he was soothed as a child sucking their thumb.

No one else touched him from the last time his handlers used him, to when Steve caused the international incident that eventually led them to Wakanda, in a bedroom fit for a king. In the morning, Bucky would be going back into cryo.

They didn’t fuck, just held each other tight, as if a few hours gorging themselves could sate decades of skin hunger. Steve had buried his hands in Bucky’s hair, running his fingers through it again and again as he peppered kisses on Bucky’s lips, cheeks, nose, neck, collarbone, and wherever else he could reach. Bucky held on tight to Steve, his arm gripping his shoulders, trying to soak in all the warmth he could so he would at least have the memory of sunshine when the chamber closed and the freezing began tomorrow.

“It looks so good, long like this,” Steve whispered. His hips rutted against Bucky’s, but the friction against his cock didn’t mean half as much as Steve’s fingers scratching lightly against his scalp. “Christ, Buck, I always wanted to tell you. Ever since I saw you without the mask. Wanted to tell you how beautiful you were.”

Bucky huffed a quiet half-laugh against Steve’s cheek. “Yeah, I bet that’s the first thing that popped into your head when you realized I was the one trying to kill you.”

Steve tugged his hair, and okay, _that_ sent a jolt of arousal straight to Bucky’s dick. “Second thing,” he replied. “First was how incredibly lucky I was to be standing in the future with my best guy right in front of me. Second was how much I wanted to run my fingers through that big beautiful mane of his.”

At that, Bucky actually did laugh out loud. But Steve kissed him and scritched his head and stroked his hair and it all felt so fucking _good_ that Bucky forgot what he was supposed to find so funny, and for the first time in decades he let himself really, truly enjoy everything he was feeling.

In Wakanda there were doctors and therapists, and he realized that maybe he could heal. And then there was also Shuri, Shuri who told him Steve would be visiting when he’d been out of cryo for three weeks without any complications, and, “You must clean yourself, White Wolf. Brush your hair. I will not have Captain Rogers looking at you and thinking you’ve been deprived of indoor plumbing.”

It was a fair point. Most of Shuri’s points were. She’d thrust some products in his direction and introduced him to the wide world of online styling tutorials, and. Well.

It wasn’t like he spent all his time on his hair. Mostly he just put it up halfway, enough to keep it out of his eyes but still protect the back of his neck from the worst of the sun while he dealt with his goats.

In his down time, though… well, he was still limited in what he could do with just the one hand. But he trusted Shuri enough to sit behind him and walk him through some of the styles that she said would work for white-boy hair like his. And there was always Steve, those few occasions when he was able to smuggle himself into Wakanda. Steve, who never lost those dexterous artist’s fingers he put to good use all those years ago in Brooklyn, and would gladly spend all day touching Bucky in whatever way he could.

And Bucky didn’t just let him. No, Bucky actually started _asking_ him for it. Nearly choked on the words, too, that first time he brought the brush and comb and hair ties to Steve: half from the taboo of a thing like him feeling something like desire, and half from the throat-closing conviction that he absolutely didn’t deserve anything he wanted.

But Steve had practically tackled him with the force of his hug and told him he ought to have the world. And in the those long, afternoons, he’d braid Bucky’s hair, and in the long, hot evenings his work would come undone. Usually by his own hands, too, rubbing at Bucky’s scalp while he fucked him sweet and slow, or holding tight while Bucky rode him.

(This, Bucky will take to his grave: Steve figured out quickly enough how much Bucky liked it when he played with his hair during sex. He also realized that when Bucky was close, instead of reaching down for his dick, he could tangle his fingers in his hair and _pull_ , and the sudden pulse of pain and pleasure would always, _always_ be enough to send him over the edge. Christ, it was like yanking on his hair sent a signal straight to his cock that it was time to come; Bucky would maybe feel embarrassed about it if it didn’t feel so fucking _good_.)

Those days in Wakanda were the most peaceful months he’d ever know. And then the world ended, and then it came back but Steve left, so it might as well have just stayed ended.

Bucky adapted. He always did. In the back of his mind—and sometimes the front, when the day’s labor wasn’t hard enough to earn him deep, nightmareless sleep, or during moments when his returning memories were especially grim—he’d always known he didn’t deserve Wakanda, and he especially didn’t deserve Steve.

He left the selfish little utopia he’d built up in Wakanda and resumed his role as a soldier. He didn’t much like General Ross, but their goals more or less aligned. He barely knew Sam, but he was competent enough backup. Penance wasn’t supposed to be fun, and forgiveness wasn’t supposed to be easy. That was fair.

But even though he knew he wasn’t meant for happiness, even though he told himself he fully accepted that as fact, Bucky hung onto the one stupid vice he’d nursed since the day he fled HYDRA. Odds were that no would but him would ever touch it again, but hell, he had two working hands and a stubborn streak that had hardened under the Wakandan sun and which told him, in a voice that sounded like the one person he least wanted to think about: you deserve this. You’re allowed to want, and you’re allowed to take care of yourself. You’re worth more than worst things they made you do.

And because Bucky was selfish and stupid and prideful, and because he craved the small, sharp shock of satisfaction he got when he looked in the mirror and remembered that his body was his own and he could indulge it however he wanted, and because the only thing that really helped him get back to sleep after his nightmares was pretending the hands stroking his head belonged to someone who loved him, he kept his hair long.

So the fact is, it’s punishment for his own hubris that they get the jump on him when he’s in a mall, buying shampoo.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific content warnings: threats of gun violence.

Bucky stands in front of the hair care display with narrowed eyes, considering his options carefully. The honey-scented shampoo he’d bought last time had left his hair feeling thick and soft, and he’d liked how the sweet scent hung in the steamy air after he showered. He wouldn’t mind going with that again.

The problem, of course, is that there are so many other products that he hasn’t tried. What if there’s one he likes better and he just doesn’t know it?

But then, he reminds himself, it’s also very likely that some of these won’t work with his hair. How would he know? What if he gets something, and just dries his hair out? Or makes it stringy and greasy? That wouldn't do at all.

There are theoretically people he could talk to. But the staff here is much too handsy for him to handle, too desperate to make him put on their lotions or sniff their charcoal face scrubs (and perhaps he’s biased from all the burning bodies he’s left in his wake, but covering his face in ash just doesn’t sound appealing). And going to a salon, getting a professional to look at his hair, is just out of the question. He knows firsthand how easy it is to get behind someone and kill them with a pair of scissors. 

He picks up a round shampoo bar (solid shampoo—ain’t the future grand?) and sniffs it. It smells like the ocean, which probably means that the green flecks that pepper the surface are, in fact, seaweed. Interesting.

Bucky reaches up to tug at a strand of the hair that falls loose from his waterfall braid. Maybe he’d been too hasty when he’d dismissed the overeager salesperson who descended upon him when he first entered the store. Loathe as he is to admit defeat, he’s not even sure what half the things on the shelf are. “Naked Pressed Conditioner?” The hell? It’s becoming increasingly clear that he may not be prepared to navigate the overwhelming terrain of modern grooming by himself.

Someone brushes against him and Bucky reflexively tenses, even as his mind points out that it’s probably the same worker he had curtly told he didn’t need any help and was just browsing, thank you very much. He hadn’t really been trying to hide his perplexity. Odds are that the store has a policy about intervening when customers are standing frozen in front of their shelves, blocking the way for other shoppers and looking like they’ve been presented with unsolved math problems.

And then the person behind him speaks.

“I’ve got men posted at all three of the entrances. They’re listening in on us now. If you try to run, or if you’re stupid enough to try to fight, they’ll start shooting anyone and everyone they see. Unless you want a bloodbath, you’re gonna turn around nice and slow and come with me.”

As if the voice itself is a trigger word, all thoughts of luxury soaps and shampoos shatter as his pulse skyrockets, his body going into survival mode. _Rollins_. Nasty fucker. Always eager to help Rumlow implement whatever sadistic fantasies he came up with; never seemed to have the brains or the creativity to invent his own unique torture methods. Presumed dead after the Triskelion fell. 

Apparently not.

He carefully put the shampoo back on the shelf and turn around. There’s no mistaking him, the same sharp cheekbones and pinched expression. More lines on his face than when Bucky saw him last. He’s not aging well.

“Jack,” he says, taking a little bit of spiteful pleasure in calling a former handler his first name. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?”

Rollins gives him a tight smile and wraps an arm around his shoulders, hand curling over his left arm. As he does so, his grubby hand brushes against the hair that falls on the back of Bucky’s neck, It takes effort not to shudder, to give any outward indication of how the touch makes his skin crawl. There are lives at stake. He’s fine.

“Your old friend Zemo,” Rollins murmurs as he starts ushering him towards the front of the store. “Shoulda killed him when you got the chance. He’s got one hell of a bounty on your head. Wants you alive, unfortunately, but lucky for me, he said it’s all right if you’re not quite in one piece.”

“Zemo, huh?” Bucky smiles and nods at the salesperson as they head out of the store, forcing his body to stay relaxed despite the rising tide of panic that shows no sign of reaching its zenith anytime soon.

He counts at least two guns on Rollins, barely concealed. Something in his ear, probably a comms device. If he can just get all the HYDRA agents outside, he should be able to disarm them easily enough. It’ll be fine.

“Oh, yeah. Zemo’s been up to some big stuff. I’m sure he’ll be happy to tell you all about it when you’re drooling and sitting in a puddle of your own piss, in the Chair, where you belong.” Rollins grins, wrapping his arm even tighter around Bucky as they make their way through the mall. “Just like old times, Soldat.”

“And you’re hoping he makes you his right-hand man? Trying to be more than just Crossbones’ lackey? Nice to see you aiming high.” Keep talking. Get him unbalanced. Don’t show fear.

The mention of Rumlow makes Rollins tense up, like Bucky thought it would. Good. He’s well aware what a fine line he’s walking: rile up your captors too much, and they’ll go even rougher on you than they would’ve otherwise. But anger can also make them sloppy, and that’s what he’s betting on now. He just needs to get Rollins and whatever other HYDRA goons he’s got with him to the parking lot, where civilian casualties are much less likely. Then he can get out of this mess.

Besides, the fact of the matter is that with HYDRA, things are always bad. They could also always get worse, too, but when the baseline is so low, the small satisfaction that comes with seeing how Rollins’ jaw works as he tries to come up with a retort is worth the risk.

“You’ll pay for what your Captain did to him,” Rollins says finally. “Anyway, Steve’s dead and gone. There’s no one left who cares enough to rescue you this time.”

The first part isn’t true: Steve’s off enjoying retirement… well, somewhere. They don’t talk much. It messes with his head and his heart to see a stranger in place of the man he loved. He’s trying to stay mostly functional these days, since that’s the only way he can hope to do penance for his past. Interacting with the man Steve has become makes that difficult. 

Rollins doesn’t need to know any of that, though. The second part of his statement is more or less fact. If he’s gone long enough, Sam will probably come looking—not because they’re friends; Bucky’s pretty sure he ruined any chance of that when he tried to drop-kick Sam to his death, but out of concern over misplacing a super-assassin. That, or General Ross will have a mission for them and make Sam go find him. But even that isn’t a guarantee.

It doesn’t matter. It’s been a long time since Bucky let the truth, or partial truths, hurt him. He just smiles, languid.

“Well, I’m still here, and Rumlow is an ugly pile of dust in Nigeria, so I’ll count that as a win.”

“See how you feel when we’re done with you,” Rollins hisses back. 

They turn down the hall to one of the mall’s exits. On a bench near a door sits a tall man with a thick gut and receding blond hair. He looks vaguely familiar, though the tickle of a memory definitely includes a better hairline.

He’s wearing a black backpack that probably looks innocuous enough to most observers. Bucky glances at it, and even though it’s mostly obscured by the man’s figure, he knows at once it’s holding guns and ammo.

Shit. In the back of his mind, he’d nursed a small hope that Rollins was bluffing about having shooters ready if he didn’t comply. But Rollins nods at the man, who returns the gesture, effectively strangling that already weak prayer.

Oh, well. Not the first time he’s been outnumbered, won’t be the last. He keeps his breathing calm as Rollins guides him through the mall’s doors, through the parking lot, and to a white van parked near the very back. It’s still just the two of them.

“Your goons decide not to join us?” Bucky asks as they approach the conspicuously unmarked vehicle. “They busy getting mall pretzels? Orange Julius? Christ, I could go for a smoothie.”

“I liked you better when your brain was too fried for you to run your fucking mouth,” growls Rollins. He’s glancing around, obviously coming to the same conclusion Bucky has: there’s no one around. And Bucky would bet good money they’re out of view of any security cameras.

Rollins pulls the keys from his pocket, one arm still around Bucky. “They come out when you get in. They’re still listening.” He taps the wire in his ear. “I stop talking, they start shooting.”

“Good plan,” Bucky agrees. His heart is starting to beat quicker. So Rollins wants him in the van. If he’s not completely fucking brainless, he’ll take Bucky’s weapons too. Which means that this’ll come down to him fighting at least four armed assailants in closed quarters with his bare hands.

Okay. He’s faced worst odds. And judging by the looks of them, Rollins and the rest of his pack haven’t been getting up to much combat lately. It could be worse.

Rollins finishes unlocking the van, swinging the back doors open. It’s a pretty standard setup, save for the magcuffs lying on the floor. Shit.

“In.” Rollins shoves at the center of his back, not nearly hard enough for Bucky to lose his balance.

He hesitates, fishing for something to say to draw this out. If he can just get the rest of the HYDRA agents out here…

“You have five seconds before you’re responsible for a mass shooting. Five...”

Once again, his brain fails him: he's out of ways to stall. Bucky raises his hands in mock surrender. Before he can actually make it in on his own, though, Rollins grabs a handful of his hair and climbs into the van himself, yanking Bucky along. Fucker.

It’s easier to just go along with the motion, though. Let Rollins believe that he’s in charge—as the whole situation would certainly suggest—while trying to find a way out. So he doesn’t struggle too much on the way in, not even when Rollins shoves him down so that he’s on his knees, Rollins behind him. Not like the van is tall enough to stand in, anyway. In the long run, kneeling is probably better for his back.

Bucky nods at the cuffs, his motion limited by Rollins’ continued grip on his hair. “Those for me?”

“Just a precaution. In case this doesn’t work.”

He gets maybe a fraction of a second to wonder what that means before he feels the needle prick at the back of his neck, fully exposed with his hair out of the way. Something thick, sluggish and burning spreads out through his veins, and there isn’t even time for him to think _fuck_ before he’s unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your comments; they really make my day!!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags -- this is the one where bad things happen. Additional trigger warnings for internalized victim blaming, moments of dissociation, and homophobic, misogynistic, and whorephobic slurs.
> 
> Also: your comments mean the world to me, and I would love to hear what y'all think about this. Thanks for reading.

Maybe it’s because Bucky has been captured so many times before. Maybe it’s the serum. Maybe there’s a higher power somewhere out there who hates him and wants to make sure he’s never allowed even a moment of brief, ignorant respite.

Whatever the cause, the truth is this: whenever Bucky emerges from unconsciousness, he’s always immediately, brutally aware of his situation. And now is no different: even as his nerves try and fail to come fully online, his limbs too heavy for him to control, he can remember what happened.

The mall. Rollins. Being too distracted by fucking _shampoo_ to recognize the net being lowered upon him.

Fuck, he deserves this.

He blinks a few times until he’s able to see straight. The room he’s in consists of concrete walls, a single exposed light bulb buzzing in the ceiling, and a boiler in the corner. A rickety set of stairs in front of him leads up to a door. No windows. A basement, probably.

His wrists and ankles are in heavy metal shackles that are chained to the floor. The walls aren’t equipped for magcuffs, he notes, and the hooks to which the short chains attach look like they were only drilled into the cement floor recently. This place probably isn’t a HYDRA safehouse, then, or anything like that. Odds are that it’s just where Rollins and his gang are squatting.

He tries tugging on the chains, but he can only manage to get on his arms and knees for a second before his arms give out again, leaving him in an uncomfortable half-kneel, half-crouch sort of position. He can’t get up any further than that; the restraints hold him in place, and whatever they drugged him with sits sluggishly in his veins, refusing to burn out. Once again, the privilege of controlling his body has been stripped from him.

Bucky thinks of Rollins’ hands on him and grimaces inwardly. His autonomy probably won’t be the only thing getting stripped today. 

The thought is neither comforting nor particularly funny. Most of his coping mechanisms aren’t. But as the door opens and Rollins strolls down the steps, followed by the blond man they’d passed on the way out of the mall and two others, he knows that he probably won’t be joking for a long time after this. So maybe he should find humor where he can, even if it’s at his own expense.

“Looks like Sleeping Beauty’s finally awake,” Rollins announces, stopping right in front of Bucky. He pauses, smirking, and then reaches out and yanks _hard_ on Bucky’s braid, forcing his head to snap up towards the ceiling. “Or maybe I should call you Rapunzel?”

Is he still too drugged to talk? Bucky works his jaw, ignoring the pain at the back of his head. Well, it’s not like he has any dignity to lose if he is. 

“Hey Jack, how can you read fairy tales and not realize you’re one of the bad guys? Are the morals too subtle for you to get?” 

His words are only a bit slurred. Seems like he’s got more control over his tongue than any other muscles. He knows that’s a detail that probably won’t escape his captors’ notice.

“Oh, I know what I am. Seems like you’re the one that’s forgotten.” Rollins jerks his braid one last time, then lets go and steps back. “HYDRA’s fist, one of history’s worst serial killers, standing around in the mall, buying beauty supplies. Jesus. Zemo’ll be doing you a favor when he gets you back in the Chair. You’re better off being a weapon than some kind of faggot.”

He waits, obviously expecting a response. When Bucky fails to comply, he backhands him. 

“You hear me?” This time he doesn’t bother reaching for the braid, just grips the top of Bucky’s head, forcing Bucky to look at him.

It’s fine. Bucky couldn’t quite manage to straighten out his neck after Rollins slapped him. Better to be looking up at his captors than to have his head lolling uselessly to the side. Rollins is doing him a favor, really.

Ha. Positive thinking. His therapist would like that. He feels his lips twitch. 

“What are you smiling at?” Rollins tightens his hold and shakes his head, the way a dog shakes a rabbit in its mouth to break its neck.

“I think he likes when you touch his hair,” says the blond man, the one they passed on the way out of the mall. His voice makes something click in Bucky’s head. Stepanov, that was his name. He can’t remember anyone ever calling him by a first name. He was an engineer, worked on the arm. Even the Soldier, whose knowledge of social situations was basically nonexistent, always thought he was pathetically desperate to get the rest of the crew to like him.

Bucky tries to get a better look at the other two men. One has a buzzcut and a douchey goatee; the other is a curly-haired redhead. They both look young. It’s hard to guess people’s ages after the Snap, but he’s pretty sure they look too young to have been with HYDRA before Project Insight. And they’re both wearing similar expressions of enthusiasm and apprehension, though Redhead is way more on the nervous side than Goatee. They haven’t done anything like this before. New recruits.

“That true?” Rollins asks, snapping him out of his observations. “You like this?”

He flattens his hand and runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair, down the side of his head, tearing a good chunk loose from the braid. Then he reaches out and tucks those free strands behind Bucky’s ear. It’s an obscenely gentle gesture, the pads of his finger trailing down Bucky’s neck. 

But the thing is: the gesture doesn’t make Bucky melt, the way it might’ve if it had been Ste—if it had been someone else. A lover, or just someone who meant it kindly. He _doesn’t._

It’s just that the drug still has more control of his body than he does. He can barely stay balanced kneeling like this. So when Rollins stops holding up his head, when he touches behind his ears, he maybe lists to the side a bit. Into Rollins’ touch.

His body has betrayed him time and time again, but it still hurts when it happens.

“I’ll be damned,” Rollins says, his fingernails all at once digging into the thin skin behind Bucky’ ear. “He really does like it. That’s why you grew it long? So all the men that fuck you can have something to hold?”

Bucky focuses all his energy on keeping his face impassive. On not showing any shame. He has nothing to be ashamed of; whatever prickles his chest right now, threatens to redden his cheeks as Rollins reaches back and undoes his braid, it’s not shame. It isn’t.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling generous.” Rollins stands up. “In fact, I think we all are. Isn’t that right?”

The other three men stumble over each other to affirm that yes, they certainly are in _giving_ moods. Goatee has already started palming his crotch, and Stepanov and Redhead don’t look far behind.

Rollins smirks as he shoves his pants and boxers down to his knees. “Bet you’ve missed this, haven’t you?”

He hasn’t. He thought he’d gotten away from this when he ran from HYDRA and decided that his body was his own. But in retrospect, believing that he could choose who fucked him was probably about as naive as thinking that he could spend a free afternoon going to the mall and buying shampoo like a normal fucking person. 

HYDRA might’ve set the trap that got him here, but his own stupidity was the bait.

Rollins pauses, ugly cock hanging half-hard just inches from Bucky’s face. “You even think about using your teeth or anything like that, someone’s gonna die. Not someone you know. We’ll grab someone of the street, maybe even more than one person. And we’ll bring them back here, and you’ll have to explain to them that they’re gonna die slow and screaming because you thought you were better than a cheap cocksucker. Got it?”

Of course he gets it. That was one of HYDRA’s original methods for teaching him how to comply. He doesn’t bother answering, just glares at Rollins. But he knows that the threat is real, and Rollins knows that he knows.

“Glad we’re on the same page.”

Then the blunt head of Rollins’ dick is pressing at his lips, and he could resist, he tries just not opening his mouth, but then Rollins has a tight hand on his chin and he doesn’t have the strength to fight as his mouth is yanked open. What’s the point, really. He knew how this would end the moment he woke up chained on the floor. No point struggling against the inevitable, wasting the energy he’s desperately trying to will into existence.

But as Rollins thrusts, he also grasps onto Bucky’s hair. There’s no feigning gentleness this time around. He just winds his fingers around the strands and tugs, forces Bucky to look at his ugly grinning face while he fucks into his mouth.

Rollins has an alchemist’s hands, Bucky thinks distantly: with his touch, his hair turns from a source of comfort, of care, of vanity, into puppet strings.

It’s a stupid thought. It’s stupid to feel like Rollins touching his hair suddenly makes this whole situation more violating than it already was. His hair was never off-limits to the HYDRA agents fucking him; no part of his body was. The only part of this scenario that differs from the dozens—maybe hundreds; how would he fucking know—other times that HYDRA raped him is that now Rollins is being intentional with his touch. That, and the fact that Bucky thought he’d gotten away from this shit.

He gags, almost choking as Rollins shoves in as deep as he can possibly go, his balls rubbing up against Bucky’s chin. Well, he’s allowed to have stupid thoughts. Better to occupy his mind with those than focus on what’s happening here.

“You like that, don’t you?” Rollins reaches out with his free hand, scraping his fingernails through the hair above Bucky’s ears. “Ain’t this the reason you grew your hair out all long and pretty? Just waiting for someone to come along and make you their bitch?”

Bucky wants to say _Aww, you think I’m pretty?_ , but it’s hard to speak, on account of the dick in his mouth. Probably it wouldn’t sound as funny in the open as it does in his head.

Tears prick at the corner of his eyes as Rollins thrusts deep and dips his nails into his scalp. He maybe, might be starting to lose it a bit.

All at once, Rollins pulls out and Bucky finds himself able to breathe freely again. Which he does, unashamedly. He knows that air can be taken as easily as autonomy; it’s smart not to take either for granted.

“Just as good as I remember.” He pets Bucky’s head, like he’s a dog. “Hey Step, you wanna take a turn with his mouth?”

Stepanov approaches, and from the way he’s already unzipping his jeans, it’s blatantly clear that he does, in fact, want a turn. “You sure you’re done with him?”

“Hell no. He can take two at once easy. He could even do more than that, but we might need to warm him up a bit.” Rollins walks behind him and shoves down hard between his shoulder blades. “Hands and knees.”

Bucky’s arms are shaking. For a moment, he isn’t sure he can comply. But whatever the drug is, it’s slowly burning its way out of his system. He just needs to hold on a little longer. And in the meantime, he’s better off doing what he can to make this hurt less.

He grits his teeth and locks his elbows as best he can while Stepanov steps up, precome already smeared down the head of his dick. Rollins’s hands are in his waistband, unbuttoning his jeans; a second later, he feels the stale basement air on the back of his thighs as his pants and briefs are yanked down.

Stepanov reaches out and strokes Bucky’s hair while Rollins spits and, from the sound of it, slicks up his cock. “So soft,” he says. “Bet he sits in front of a mirror for an hour every day just brushing it out.”

“Only an hour?” says Goatee. He’s gotten close enough for Bucky to see just how large the tent in his jeans is. It looks uncomfortable (he hopes it’s uncomfortable). “How long do you think he spends washing it every day? Braiding it? I dated this stuck-up bitch once who spent half the day doing her hair and makeup. He’s probably worse.”

“You wear makeup?” Stepanov grins down at him as he asks the question. “I bet he does. Paints his nails and puts on eyeliner.”

“Maybe if he spent less time trying to get dick and more time keeping in shape, we wouldn’t have gotten him so easy.” Rollins slaps his ass, and Bucky can hear the grin in his voice.

“Maybe if you all spent a bit more time showering, you could find someone who actually wanted to fuck you,” Bucky replies.

Redhead actually laughs at that. The others aren’t so amused: Goatee scowls, while Stepanov grabs onto his hair and yanks hard, ripping strands of it out.

And Rollins, well. Rollins takes hold of his hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Maybe, Bucky thinks, it’s a good thing that the drug is still sitting heavy in his system, making his muscles all slack and loose. It means he’s not as tense as he could be when Rollins shoves his dick inside him, no prep and nothing but spit to slick the way.

Fuck, it burns. And it can’t feel all that great on Rollins’s end either; he’s tight and dry enough that it’s got to chafe, hopefully scraping up his dick enough that he’ll feel it for days, if he lives that long (which, hopefully, he won’t). But Rollins is persistent, gripping hard enough that Bucky can feel the bruises form as he bears down and tears his way inside.

Bucky can’t letting out a snarl of pain as Rollins enters him. Stepanov takes advantage of the way his mouth drops open to thrust inside, his fingers still tangled in Bucky’s hair. And just like that, it’s like he never got away from HYDRA; he’s being fucked into from both ends, speared between two men who knew him when he was just a thing to be used and who, unlike Bucky, never lost sight of where he belonged.

He used to be able to go away when things like this happened. Let his head fill up with static; blink, and he’d be lying sore and sticky and achy on the floor of whatever cell they were keeping him in, or he’d be standing on shaking legs while they hosed him down with freezing water before shoving him into the cryochamber.

Now, he feels all too present. He feels every thrust as his ass gradually loosens for Rollins. He feels Stepanov holding onto his hair while he grinds his sweaty cock into Bucky’s mouth. He feels the gazes of the two men not fucking him, watching closely, waiting for their turns.

He tries to think of anything else, to keep his mind from the pain and the way that his knees and arms tremble. Anything to tune out Rollins’s and Stepanov’s inane chorus about what a bitch he is, how tight he is for such a slut, and isn’t he just loving how they play with his hair, and there are so many hands in his hair, Jesus Christ, they keep petting him and brushing their fingers through it again and again and he tries to shake his weak neck and dislodge them but their grips just tighten, fingernails digging into his scalp while they hold him still, and what his mind finally alights on, chooses as a distracting thought, is this:

Unless you count sparring with Sam (and he doesn’t count that), this is the first time he’s been touched in almost six months. 

The first time since that night after Stark’s funeral, when Steve had broken down in his arms and admitted that he couldn’t do this anymore, he had tried so goddamn hard but he’d been on his own five years, and the future was just one war after another, and there were no happy endings here, only bloody ones; hadn’t Bucky been the one to tell him it always ends in a fight? And Bucky had wanted to scream and fight and tell Steve that he couldn’t fucking leave him here alone, but he knew Steve had made up his mind already and nothing could change it. And it would have been stupid and selfish to argue with him, taint Steve’s last memory of him for seventy years.

So instead he’d held Steve and told him he understood, it was okay, he wasn’t mad. And when Steve had calmed down they had fucked, slow and sweet, deep enough that Bucky had still been a little sore the next morning, when he’d hugged Steve goodbye and, minutes later, nodded at a man he no longer knew.

But between that last time they’d come together and when they’d said goodbye, they had just lain in bed, so entangled it was impossible to say who was holding who, and Steve had kept stroking his hair, his broad palms smoothing and soothing from Bucky’s forehead to his nape, his artist’s fingers rubbing at his temples, tucking strands behind his ears.

That had been the last time he’d fucked or been fucked, the last time anyone’s hands beside his had been in his hair. And months had slipped past where he barely talked to anyone besides Sam, General Ross, or his government-mandated therapist. He’d been fighting Hydra. He’d been coping. He’d been fine.

And here he was now, and at this point he had to admit that he probably _wasn’t_ fine, and these men, they’d always be the first ones to have touched him since Steve. Nothing in this world or any other could ever change that simple fact.

Stepanov’s hands clench onto either side of his head, his fingernails stabbing crescent furrows into the skin beneath. The sudden bite of pain, though minor compared to everything else he’s feeling, manages to snap him away from that spiral of thoughts.

Bucky squeezes his eyes closed, taking half a second to recalibrate his thoughts. Stupid to let himself get lost like that. He needs to stay present, stay focused on his body. He’s got more feeling in his arms and legs now. Not in full control of all his functions yet, but it’s close. Just need to hang on. 

“Shit,” Stepanov groans.

Internally, Bucky braces himself. He’s heard a lot of guys say a lot of things in that voice. In a few seconds, he’ll be choking down Stepanov’s come. It’s easier if he prepares himself.

But instead, the man pulls his dick out of Bucky’s mouth, granting him the freedom of an empty throat and unobstructed airways. He sucks in air, greedy. His arms quiver beneath him as he tries leaning a bit more weight on them.

“Look at him,” Stepanov says, patting Bucky’s head hard. His dick bounces with the motion, smearing precome over Bucky’s cheek. “Look how much he’s enjoying this.”

“He missed it,” Rollins agrees from behind him. His thrusts are steady but purposeful, because…

Well. Because while Bucky checked out into his dumbass reverie about Steve and about how no one wanted to touch a pathetic POS like him, there _had_ , in fact, been people touching him. And of course, his burden of a body responded to that as bodies do.

He’s hard. He’d noticed, obviously, but it hadn’t registered anywhere near as important as the control slowly creeping back into his limbs and muscles. Rollins’s thrusts are deliberately rubbing up against his prostate, forcing his body to react in spite of—or, hell, maybe even _because_ of; Bucky knows he’s fucked up like that—the pain.

He closes his eyes again. It doesn’t matter. Not the first time he’s gotten it up during HYDRA’s rapes. He just has to make it out of here so he can kill the men in this room and all the others like them. That’s what’s important. It doesn’t really matter if he lets Rollins take advantage of what a sick fuck he is and tease an orgasm from his torn, bleeding ass. Not as long as it’s the last thing Jack ever does.

“Look at me.” Stepanov pulls sharply on his hair once, then steps back. 

There’s no point disobeying and risking extra punishment now, not when he’s getting so close to being able to make a break for it. He opens his eyes.

“Good. You don’t get to check out for this.”

Bucky wouldn’t have bothered to wonder at the meaning of the words anyways; he’s got more important things to think about. But as it is, Stepanov doesn’t allow him time to wonder. He jerks his cock quickly in front of Bucky’s face. Behind him, Rollins stills, his dick still sheathed deep.

When Stepanov comes, it isn’t over Bucky’s face like he expected, spurting into his open eyes and dripping down his nose, his cheeks, onto his mouth. Instead, Stepanov aims his dick higher so that his semen spills out into Bucky’s hair, hitting just above his right temple and dribbling down the strands that frame his face.

“You’re a sick fuck,” he hears Rollins say appreciatively as Stepanov smears the mess over Bucky’s head like, like conditioner or styling cream, or the stupid expensive shampoo that Bucky had been so eager to buy that he walked right back to HYDRA. His large hands run through Bucky’s hair over and over again, rough without being violent. He could be Bucky, calming himself after a nightmare. He could be Steve after they’d just fucked long and slow in their bed in Wakanda, stroking him til he fell asleep.

A drop of come slides, hot and sticky, down his forehead, along his nose to the corner of his eye, over the curve of his cheek. His arms feel weaker than they have since he first woke up, and it takes all his willpower not to buckle forwards. Christ. He wants to go home.

Rollins starts fucking him again as Stepanov backs away. He keeps the pace slow long enough for Goatee to take Stepanov's place and shove his cock into Bucky’s mouth, but once he’s settled, he starts snapping his hips forward eagerly. Bucky’s cock responds in turn, filling up where it had been flagging before.

He tries to turn his mind away from the things being done to him. Flexes his fingers, tenses and relaxes his muscles. He’s fairly confident his captors are too preoccupied to notice as he tests himself, pushes against his limits to see if he’s ready to make his break. Just give it a few more minutes. He can get out of here, put all of this behind him, go back to pretending to be a real boy—

Rollins’ hand runs up his neck, tangling in the clean hair back there, away from where Stepanov marked him up. He cups his hand around the crown of Bucky’s head, scrapes his nails gently against the sensitive skin there that no one has touched for months, and Bucky can’t help it: he shudders.

“You do like it,” Rollins says, almost wonderingly. “I’ll be damned. I guess Brock wasn’t exaggerating, all those times he called you Hydra’s whore.”

Goatee’s cock shoves past his gag reflex, making tears well up in his eyes. It’s not like he can defend himself against Rollins, not like this. What could he say, even if he was able to speak?

There’s a hand grasping his hip tight. Fingers stroking his nape. Rollins’s dick hitting his prostate with almost every stuttering thrust of his hips; Christ, his ass hurts, feels bruised and ripped and bloody, but his own dick is so hard that it’s painful too. Goatee’s crotch pressed so close to him, his nose is practically in his pubes (which, the part of him that’s still capable of clinging to a grim humor notes, definitely bear more than a passing resemblance to the patchy growth on his face). Goatee is touching his hair too, behind his ears. Hands everywhere, no part of him untouched. 

Rollins runs his hand up the length of Bucky’s spine. His thumb presses down into the dip where Bucky’s skull meets his neck, rubbing in small circles while his fingers tangle in his hair.

“Look at you,” Rollins murmurs, grinding his dick hard into Bucky’s hole. “Exactly where you belong.”

He curls his hand, pulling Bucky’s hair taut as a noose. And then he yanks; there’s pain and there’s pleasure all mixed up as two men fuck into him at once and two more watch and everything they say about Bucky is true, because he’s coming, coming hard. He feels like he can’t breathe, and it’s not just because he’s still getting his mouth fucked. He hurts, he aches, he feels dizzy with the goddamn rightness of someone pulling on his hair and using him like the slut he is; weak with the luxury of someone touching him the way that Steve once did.

Except Steve left, and now it’s just Bucky and this traitorous body. And as the last of his orgasm shudders through him, he knows he’s never going to be able to forgive it for this betrayal.

Rollins is laughing. Some of the other men are too, he thinks. Hard to say. He’s having trouble focusing on the details over the disgust, the humiliation, the rage, and every other stupid pointless emotion roiling inside him.

He’s distantly aware that Rollins has pulled out of him and come to stand at his left shoulder, probably planning to add to the mess that Stepanov left drying sticky as blood on his scalp.

His arms and legs feel shaky, like his orgasm sapped his strength, left it cooling in wet ropes across his stomach. Still, though there’s a part of him that wants nothing more than to collapse and let his mind permanently untether itself from his hateful flesh, his limbs hold him up.

They’re shaky, but they’re strong enough.

Bucky closes his eyes and reaches down deep inside himself, to the place where the Soldier still lives. He melts the ice that keeps him dormant. Welcomes him back like an old friend.

Several things happen at once.

The Soldier leans his weight onto his right arm, subtle enough that none of the HYDRA bastards notice. Rollins grunts as he comes, his semen squirting out onto Bucky’s hair. Someone laughs. 

The new arm came with a number of upgrades. Most them had to do with minimizing the chronic pain he’d come to accept at the shoulder joint, but some were more useful.

He shifts the plates of the arm at the wrist, where the cuff holds him in place. They slide back, disconnecting from his hand.

He bites down on Goatee’s dick.

The man shrieks loud enough to wake the devil. The Soldier ignores him, pulling his arm out of the cuff and reaching back out to his hand. He can only control it at short distances while it’s detached from the rest of his body, but it’s enough. It reconnects back to his wrist in half a second.

He snatches Rollins’s ankle and yanks hard, vicious satisfaction blooming in his chest at the sound of his head smacking against the concrete floor. In the same moment, he opens up his mouth and spits out blood. Goatee falls to his knees in front of him, still cursing and moaning like—well, like someone tried to chew his dick off.

The thing about Goatee, though, is that he didn’t even bother to take his pants all the way off before he started fucking the Soldier’s mouth. And there’s still a gun in a holster clipped to his belt.

The Soldier grabs it, clicks off the safety, and shoots Goatee in the heart. He falls back, blood squirting up out of his chest.

He risks turning away from Rollins. He isn’t dead yet, but he also isn’t moving. That, and the pool of blood forming beneath his skull suggest that he’s incapacitated, at least for now.

And there are two other men who are of greater concern at the moment. Redhead is frozen, pressed against the basement wall as he gapes at the scene that turned from porno to snuff film in a matter of seconds. 

Stepanov, though, is finally started to react beyond expelling a steady stream of swears in English and in Russian. His pants are still tangled around his knees, so now he’s bending over trying to reach his gun, dick flopping stupidly as he stumbles and then trips.

The Soldier rolls his eyes. A bullet just off-center in Stepanov’s forehead effectively stops his fumbling.

“Please don’t shoot me,” Redhead begs, his hands in the air. “Please, I—I didn’t touch you, I wasn’t going to, I swear, I’ve never done anything like that before—”

Deep down, Bucky recognizes how young Redhead looks. Either he was still a kid when he went through the trauma of having half the world’s population disappear, or he’s experienced the shock of dying and then coming back to a world that already moved on. It’s not hard to understand why HYDRA’s promises of peace and stability might appeal. And Bucky knows better than anyone that people can change, that deprogramming is possible—

Tough shit, the Soldier thinks, and fires twice. Redhead slumps to the ground. 

That leaves Rollins. The Soldier turns back.

His eyes are open now, and he’s trying to raise himself up off the ground. His movements are shaky, though, like his perception is spinning out of tune with the world around him.

“The keys to the cuffs,” the Soldier says. “Give me them.”

Rollins stares, dazed, and then glares. “Fuck you,” he spits, trying with even more fervor to get up on his arms. “Fuck you, you fucking cunt, fucking whore, wait until Zemo gets his hands on you—”

The Soldier shoots. His death is quick, and unsatisfying.

The keys are in Rollins’s pockets. The Soldier unlocks himself with ease, and then impatiently waits as blood returns to the muscles in his flesh limbs. Maybe he should replace all of them with vibranium. He would be strong, then. Harder to capture. And if he did get taken, it'd be much quicker for him to get free; it wouldn’t be so easy for his captors to fuck him like he’s asking for it.

He files the matter away for further consideration and stumbles onto his feet, pulling his pants up. It’s sticky between his legs, where the pain is worst. He needs to get cleaned. That’s how these things go, right? 

Except the order now is all wrong. Usually he kills, and then his handlers use him or punish him or both, and then he gets cleaned and put away. There isn’t usually killing _after_ the fucking.

The Soldier frowns, then dismisses the thought. He has to get cleaned, because he’s supposed to get cleaned. That’s how this works. That’s how things are.

Bucky blinks. Icy water rains down upon him. He’s shaking. It smells like cheap bodywash and the chemical tang of drugstore shampoo. Which makes sense, because his hands are tangled in his long hair. Suds froth underneath them.

He yanks his hands out to brace against the walls of the shower stall. Strands of hair tear away between his fingers, but the pain barely registers as he focuses on staying on his feet.

Christ. Fuck. He killed them. He—the Soldier—no, it was all him. He killed them. They’re dead. That means that he’s safe.

Except he doesn’t feel like he is. He’s shivering, and the shampoo is running down his face, making his eyes water. He feels exposed and even though the fingers of his right hand are wrinkled, meaning he must’ve been in here longer than he realizes, he still feels dirty.

Bucky wrenches the water off and stumbles out. His clothes are piled in the corner, his weapons on top. The Soldier must have found them. Good. 

It doesn’t look like a hotel bathroom; he’s fairly sure he’s still in whatever house Rollins brought him to. If there aren’t cops swarming the place by now, then either no one heard the gunshots or no one cares. That’s good. Means it’ll be easier to get rid of the evidence.

Bucky dries off and dresses without bothering to assess his damages. The bruises and abrasions the cuffs left on his wrists and ankles should fade quickly, and there isn’t much he can do about the more intimate injuries. He’s fairly confident that they’ll go away on their own, too. He’s had worse injuries of a similar nature heal without medical intervention. 

As he’s finishing buttoning his shirt, a strand of his hair falls forward into his face. Without thinking, he reaches up to brush it back behind his ear.

Something sticky grazes against his hand.

He’s touching his hair suddenly, patting it down, tearing his fingers through it. It feels wrong. Like something viscous clings to the strands, even though he’s showered, even though he should be clean.

Bucky glimpses himself in the mirror. He looks wild-eyed, like a spooked animal; his hair is a damp rat’s nest tangled around his shoulders. 

There’s nothing visible, but he can still _feel_ something streaking his hair, coating his hands even though they aren’t on his head anymore; they’re holding tight to the counter as he stares at the stranger in the mirror, because if he doesn’t hold onto something, he’s going to fall to his knees and maybe never get up.

There are still hands in his hair, though. Still touching him, still smearing their come all over him, marking him, making him theirs.

He leans forward and closes his eyes, tries hard to get a fucking grip already, Jesus Christ, but he can’t. He just fucking can’t. They won’t stop touching him and his ears are ringing too much for him to really hear anything, but if they weren’t, he’s sure he’d hear their voices talking about how much he likes it, how easy it is to make him come if they only pull his hair just right, make it feel real good and he won’t have a choice, he’ll just shoot off like the slut he is. He’s breathing too quickly. They’re touching him and he can’t breathe.

Bucky opens his eyes and looks again at his reflection, his hooded eyes with their dark circles, sallow skin, hollowed cheeks, his hair hanging limp in some places, sticky and tangled in others, and he can’t take it. He wants to get out of this body, but that’s not possible.

But he can, at least, make it so that when they get him again—not Rollins, but someone else; there’s always going to be someone else taking him and using him—when they get him again, it won’t be so easy for them to use him. To steal his pleasure from him.

He knows, even through the haze of the panic attack that he distantly recognizes he’s experiencing, that he’ll never be able to touch his own hair again. Never stroke it like a security blanket after a nightmare, never be able to think about all the times he spent in bed with Steve. He isn’t really losing anything; this is just a preventative measure to make sure there’s less for HYDRA to take.

He picks his sharpest knife off his pile of weapons, holding it steady with his left arm. With his shaking, almost-useless right arm, he pulls a section of his hair taut.

And then he starts to cut.


	4. Chapter 4

The alarm doesn’t wake Bucky up, exactly. He isn’t asleep. He hasn’t really slept in the… two? three? days since he made it back home, leaving behind a simmering, smoldering wreck that burned long and hot enough to obliterate any evidence of his presence. 

He also isn’t quite awake. His days have been… off. He vaguely remembers standing in front of his kitchen window the other morning, thinking about eating breakfast, and then suddenly there was an orange sunset streaking the sky. And he’d sat on his couch and tried to watch a movie, but he’d blinked during the opening scene and then the end credits were rolling and he couldn’t remember a thing.

The world feels fuzzy at the edges, like maybe he’s a ghost trapped on another plane. Here, but not really part of the world around him. He thinks he needs sleep. He thinks that’s why he lay down on his bed however many hours ago. 

But he also knows that sleep will just bring him straight back to the basement, to the men touching him; in his more lucid moments, when he’s more grounded in this reality, he can still feel their hands in his hair, their come dripping down his face. So this limbo he’s been drifting through is really the better option, despite the nagging little voice that claims this isn’t a sustainable mindset.

Unfortunately, the voice’s warning seems to be coming true. 

The alarm on his phone is an alert from his security system, letting him know that a vehicle is making its way down the long road to his house. His home is the only good thing about the future, a small cabin in a rural area a couple hours out from DC. Its security system rivals the Pentagon’s (Bucky knows this for a fact). Steve had bought it for him years ago and put his own money towards making it one of the safest places on the planet. It’s the only proof he has that Steve ever thought of him while he lived out his happy ending. 

Bucky picks up his phone, silencing the alarm and pulling up the video feeds. He should feel scared, right? There could be more of HYDRA coming to get him; Rollins must have told Zemo his whereabouts. There will be another fight. He might get taken again, as he knows he inevitably will. 

He’d like to feel scared, or angry. But instead, he just feels tired.

“Shit,” he mumbles halfheartedly, recognizing the car that pulls to a stop in front of his cabin. He could’ve killed any attacking HYDRA agents, or at least tried to. That is… less of an option, now.

He watches as Sam steps out of the car, taking a cardboard box along with him. His eyes are painfully dry, and his throat is too. His head hurts, a distant ache that’s dull as the rest of his senses, but real all the same. How long has it been hurting?

Sam walks up to his door and knocks, pauses for a second, then looks directly at one of the visible security cameras. “C’mon Barnes, I know you’re in there. I can feel you watching me.” He hefts up the box. “I brought doughnuts. From Sugar Shack. None of that Dunkin’s shit.”

Is he hungry? Bucky tries to think of when he last ate. That he can’t remember is… well, it’s probably not a good sign. Maybe that’s why he feels so out of it. Low blood sugar.

Maybe he should stop fucking lying to himself.

On the video feed, Sam sighs. “Look, man. You didn’t show up to sparring Tuesday, fine. Would’ve been nice of you to text, but I figured you were just being an ass. But we were supposed to meet with Ross today. And believe me, I would’ve loved to skip out on that too, but we both know he’s about the only thing keeping us from being prosecuted as war criminals.” He pauses. “I covered for you, and he didn’t have a new mission for us anyway, so it’s not like you missed much. But I’m worried. You haven’t answered your phone in days. I don’t know if you’re chasing a lead, if you’re just being a dick, or if something happened. And that’s concerning.”

Bucky almost laughs at that. Yeah, “something happened.” Probably not what Sam is thinking, though.

Sam gives it another few seconds before he speaks again. “Okay. If you don’t open up, I’m getting the shield and breaking your window to see if you’re actually here. And if you’re not, then I gotta start looking for clues for where to find you, and I’m really not in the mood to play detective. Plus, I might drop the doughnuts during all the window-smashing.”

The security system has eight different deterrent methods to deal with unwanted visitors at his front door. Three of them are nonlethal over 70% of the time. Bucky briefly considers activating one of them.

But the thing is, the shield is one of the few tools that could actually break this place’s windows. That would be a bitch to replace. And anyway, Sam hasn’t really done anything wrong. If Sam was the one who dropped off the grid, Bucky would go looking for him too.

And deep down, Bucky knows full-well that he can’t hide forever. Not in shopping malls and not in his own head. There will always be someone or something that finds him, pulls him like a riptide away from whatever calm waters he thought he was safe in. That’s life.

He takes a deep breath, drives his fingernails into his palm. Letting the stab of pain ground him, he jabs the “SPEAK” button on his phone just as Sam starts turning back towards his car. “Jesus, give a guy a minute to get decent.”

Sam’s whole body relaxes, his relief evident even before he looks back into the camera. “Don’t stress yourself. I know that’s a big ask.”

It kind of is, but Sam doesn’t need to know that. “Just wait a sec, okay?”

Bucky forces himself out of bed. He grabs a shirt from the floor, which smells slightly better than the one he’s wearing. He’s a mess; he should shower, if he wants the lie that he’s fine to be anywhere near believable, but Sam would probably get impatient and force his way in.

In the bathroom, he splashes water on his face and carefully avoids looking in the mirror. If he missed their meeting with Ross, that would make today Thursday. Five days since everything happened. That doesn’t seem right, but he can’t decide if it feels like more or less time has passed.

He makes his way from the bathroom to the kitchen, pausing to start some coffee even though the clock on his stove says it’s past 1:00 PM. Then he heads to the front entrance. 

He doesn’t give himself time to think, to prepare, because if he does he’s just going to go back to his bedroom and leave Sam standing at his stoop. Instead, keeping his mind carefully blank, not thinking about what he must look like, definitely not thinking about any hands on his head or his ass or his cock, he opens the door.

“Whoa,” Sam says. “I mean. Wow. New look?”

He doesn’t even try to hide his surprise as he stares at Bucky. No, he’s outright _gawking_. A sick part of Bucky kind of wants to know just how bad he looks; Sam isn’t exactly a subtle guy, but he’s not usually this blunt. 

He knows he should reply, fall into his and Sam’s usual pattern of banter that’s a step away from outright bullying. But trying to come up with a response is like trying to grasp a handful of the mist inside his head; he reaches and reaches and closes his fists, but everything is just empty all the same.

So he just shrugs and steps aside to let Sam come in. As they head to the kitchen, Sam keeps glancing at him, like he’s a wild animal about to go completely feral. And even through the haze that makes everything seem not quite real, Bucky remains completely aware of just how goddamn uncomfortable the silence between them is.

He gestures for Sam to sit down at the table and then turns around to the coffee pot, trying to think of something to say that will make this entire situation seem like less of a giant red flag for Sam’s internal measure of how off-his-rocker Bucky is.

Unfortunately, Sam beats him to it. 

“Seriously, what happened? You get gum stuck in your hair or something?”

Bucky _knows_ what Sam said. He has super hearing; he couldn’t miss it. But there’s still a part of him that thinks Sam asked something very, very different, and that part makes his pulse spike up and his throat close, and he has to clench his fists against the counter and remind himself in a humiliating litany that he’s fine, he’s being dramatic, Sam said _gum_ and nothing else and he doesn’t know, can’t know can’t see their hands on him and their come matting his hair it’s short now and there’s no one touching it and nothing in it—

“Barnes?” A chair scrapes against the wooden floor. “Hey, I was just kidding.”

Bucky shakes his head and breathes. What a stupid fucking thing to almost have a panic attack over. “When’s the last time you saw me chewing gum?”

A pause. Sam is still staring at him, he can feel it. He ignores it, reaching up to get two mugs down from the cabinets.

Behind him, he hears Sam sit back down. “I didn’t say you put it there yourself. My sister, when she was in second grade, these two kids sitting behind her in class put gum in her hair. She had to get it cut real short. But she had the last laugh, ‘cause she looked cute as a button, and the boys who did it… well.”

Bucky turns around. Sam smirks. “Let’s just say they didn’t look so cute when I was done with them.”

Bucky snorts. “Bet you really taught those eight-year-olds a lesson.”

“Hey, I watch out for my own.” Sam opens the doughnut box and makes his selection before nudging it over to Bucky.

He takes one, knowing that Sam is watching and that he really should eat something. When he bites it, it tastes like chalk, the powdered sugar forming a heavy glue in his mouth.

Bucky forces himself to swallow anyway. “Look, I’m sorry I missed sparring. And the meeting. I didn’t mean to, I just kind of… lost track of time.”

Sam gives him a Look. “We were supposed to meet at the gym on Tuesday. It’s Thursday.”

Bucky shrugs and turns away. He’s not avoiding Sam’s gaze; it’s just that the coffee is done. “You want coffee?”

“I want you to stop bullshitting me.”

“Great. Cream and sugar?”

The glare Sam gives him is strong enough to rust his metal arm. Bucky hands him the cup black, but passes over the sugar bowl anyway. He might be fucked up on twenty different levels, but that’s no excuse for being a bad host.

“You know, I told Ross you were sick. At the time, I figured I was lying out of my ass. Think Ross did too.” Sam takes a long sip of his coffee, never breaking his stare. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

“I’m not sick.” 

He almost says _I’m fine_ , figuring that might actually piss Sam off so much that he leaves. But the words stick in his mouth, like they’re caught in the rancid tar of powdered sugar and sour-tasting slime that coats the inside of his otherwise-dry mouth. When did he last brush his teeth? Did he ever rinse it clean of the HYDRA agents’ precome, or is it still dribbling out the corners of his lips?

Stupid thought. He drinks from his cup, trying to chase it away. The coffee tastes burnt and acerbic, and fills his empty stomach with a queasy sort of unease. Sam is still watching him, not saying anything, like he thinks he can outlast Bucky in this game. Doesn’t he know Bucky’s a sniper, a stone-cold killer who’s had to spend hours still and silent as a sheet of ice, waiting for the right moment to take a shot? 

Except he doesn’t want to be still. He feels jittery all of a sudden, wants to pace or fidget or run away until he stops being caught between the real world that Sam occupies and the hazy, timeless in-between that’s kept him from falling apart the past few days. Maybe it’s the coffee, or the lack of sleep or food or drink. Maybe he’s just losing it.

Get a fucking grip, he tells himself. A sharp pain sparks at the back of his scalp: Rumlow tugging his hair, making him come. Is he touching Bucky now? Are they all there?

“Maybe it’s better you weren’t at the meeting,” Sam finally says. He looks down, and it’s like Bucky can breathe again, though his chest is still clenched tight. There’s no one else here. He knows that. Don’t be stupid.

Sam breaks a piece off the doughnut, showering sprinkles and crumbs of pink frosting down onto the table. “Ross was in a hell of a mood. Apparently someone torched a place just outside Middleburg with four people inside. Ross is pretty sure they were HYDRA agents.”

Bucky shrugs. The back of his neck, newly exposed to the air, suddenly feels clammy with sweat, like there’s a dead man squeezing down on it. He’s glad he’s holding his mug in his left hand: it’s harder to see the shaking that way. “That’s four less for us to worry about.”

“That’s what I said,” Sam agrees. “But apparently Ross had been tracking them for awhile, trying to figure out where they were reporting—shit!”

Sam jumps to his feet as the handle of Bucky’s coffee mug snaps off in his fist, sending the cup and all its contents spilling down to the floor. The mug shatters. Steaming coffee soaks through Bucky’s thin t-shirt; he doesn’t feel a thing.

“Ross knew that Rollins was alive?” he snaps, gripping the counter behind him. “He knew, and he didn’t bother to fucking tell me?”

Across the table, Sam stares at him. “I never said Rollins was involved.”

A dizzying wave of nausea passes over Bucky. He blinks hard, and when he opens his eyes the sunlight streaming through the window is so bright it hurts. The comforting fog that’s kept him from feeling real these past few days has cleared from his head. There’s no hiding now. 

He wants to hide, though. He wants to be anywhere else, anywhere besides back in that basement or standing here right now with Sam’s eyes upon him, watching him and seeing the come smeared on his face and hair, seeing everything that’s been done to him and seeing the hands that are still touching him.

He’s moving without thinking, wanting to run but his legs are so unsteady he knows he won’t make it far. Instead, he stumbles sideways, bracing against the counter and the table and whatever else his hands can find for balance.

He ends up in the corner, just fitting into the gap between the refrigerator and the wall. He isn’t safe—he’s never safe—but no one can get behind him now. No one can come up and drag their nails along his scalp. No one can twine their fingers through the strands loosed from his braid and pull and yank an orgasm from the worthless body he’d been stupid enough to think belonged to him.

His legs can’t hold him anymore; he can’t do this anymore. He sits down hard in the small space, the fridge and the wall pressing up against him like the edges of the cryochamber. Elbows braced against his knees, he presses his hands against his face.

Without thinking, his fingers reach out to tangle in the hair that falls over his eyes. But all they find is the raggedy fringe left behind after he hacked the rest off. So that no one could ever touch him again, not even himself.

Bucky cries.

In the back of his mind, he is, distantly, angry with himself. He should’ve done this sooner. Gotten the tears out of the way before anyone came looking for him, because now Sam is here watching him have some kind of goddamn breakdown, and that’s just embarrassing.

Mostly he isn’t thinking anything at all, though. He’s just crying into his hands, tears smearing over his palms as he shakes. Christ, he’s shaking so much he feels dizzy with it, though that could also be the lack of sleep or the way he can’t remember when he last ate anything substantial. He probably wouldn’t even be upright if he wasn’t wedged so tightly in the corner, would probably be sprawled out on the floor and bawling like a child throwing a tantrum. 

His chest aches even as he tries to keep his sobs to a minimum—they always hurt him more when he made noise. But the tears and the shaking, he doesn’t even bother trying to hold in. There’s no point. They just come, and he takes it. He’s Samson and Delilah all in one, sapped of his strength with no one to blame but himself. 

But he can’t keep going indefinitely, especially not when he’s already so close to his limits. Soon enough, his body stops pushing out the pathetic little whimpers, and then the tears taper off. The trembling remains. 

Bucky gives himself a few extra seconds even after he’s quieted down, his eyes somehow feeling both sticky and dry all at once. He makes himself pull in deep, raggedy breaths. They’re the only sound in the room. Everything is quiet, and for once, there’s no one touching him.

He isn’t alone, though. And unfortunately, for all the security measures his cabin contains, there’s no button he can press that would make the floor swallow him whole. As usual, there’s no way out but through.

Bucky forces his eyes open, his lashes already trying to dry together.

Sam is sitting on the floor too, several feet away and to the side, so that Bucky isn’t boxed in if he wants to make a run for it. He briefly considers taking the opening, but—no. Might as well get this over with while he’s already feeling shitty.

Sam wasn’t looking directly at him, politely staring up into the air instead of watching Bucky’s meltdown head-on. But he must feel Bucky's eyes on him now, because he turns his gaze to him. He keeps his expression controlled, but he also isn’t bothering to hide his worry.

“Hey.” He pushes a glass of water and a roll of paper towels towards Bucky.

“Thanks,” Bucky rasps. He picks up the water and sips at it gratefully, then presses the cool glass against his forehead. The dull headache of before is rapidly intensifying. Probably nothing he can do to stop it at this point, but dehydration would definitely make it worse.

Sam nods. Then, deadpan, he says, “So I get the idea you’ve been having a hard time lately.”

The words actually startle a laugh out of Bucky, jostling his already-unsteady hand and splashing cold water against the tear tracks that had started to dry along his cheeks.

“Me? Nah. I’m fine.”

Sam just raises an eyebrow, unimpressed.

“Worth a shot,” Bucky says. He feels so goddamn tired; he just wants to rest his head against the wall and fall asleep here.

Instead, he puts the glass down and rips off a paper towel, scrubbing at his face and then blowing his nose. It buys him some time to think of what to say next. 

Unfortunately, the only thing inside his skull is the rising headache. He tries for a smile as he shoves the soggy paper towel into his pocket. “Really. I just haven’t slept well the past couple of nights. And anyway, it’s the 21st century. Aren’t guys allowed to show their feelings nowadays?”

Sam looks supremely unimpressed. “Cut the shit, Barnes.” 

Then he sighs. “Look, I’m not gonna force you to talk to me if you don’t want to. But tell me you’re at least talking to _someone_. I know Ross has got you seeing a therapist too; I can call her, if you want. Or one of your doctors in Wakanda?”

Bucky almost says that no, there actually isn’t anyone else that Sam can call. But that sounds sad even to him, and he’d rather not look any more pathetic than he already does. So instead he just shrugs.

Sam stays watching him, quiet and steady. If Bucky asked him to go, he probably would. Not definitely, but probably.

As tired and wrung-out as Bucky is, he’s still able to feel surprised when it dawns on him that he really doesn’t want to be alone right now.

“It’s stupid,” he says, staring up at the kitchen ceiling instead of meeting Sam’s eyes. “I wasn’t paying attention and Rollins and some other HYDRA asshats got the jump on me. Told me to come quietly or they’d shoot up some civilians. I figured I could take them once we were somewhere safe, but they drugged me and brought me back to their place. Then they, uh...”

He glances at Sam, who’s watching him with his brows drawn tight, concern creasing his face. Sam nods, very slightly. Bucky returns the gesture, then looks away.

“They roughed me up until the drugs wore off, and I killed them all and burned the place to the ground. Oh, and I might’ve freaked out and chopped off all my hair at some point.” Bucky shrugs. “The end.”

Sam stays quiet for another moment, processing the story. He knows. Bucky is sure of it.

He doesn’t think Steve told him. Steve wouldn’t ever divulge the shame that Bucky choked out to him in those stolen moments in Wakanda.

But Steve had an idea of what HYDRA did to him even before Bucky confessed. There were files, he’s pretty sure. Videos, maybe. And Sam stayed by Steve’s side while Bucky wasted the time they could’ve had together hiding from him. Whatever Steve saw, Sam probably saw too.

“I’m sorry they did that to you,” Sam says finally. “And I’m sorry you’ve been dealing with it alone. I know you can handle it by yourself, but you shouldn’t have to.”

Bucky just shrugs. Probably he should thank Sam for the sympathy or for having the decorum to pretend that Bucky wasn’t obviously on the verge of falling apart from keeping this to himself, but he feels too exhausted to think of a response.

“And I don’t know, maybe you don’t feel like this applies to you, but. It’s not uncommon for survivors to change their appearances after a traumatic experience, as a way of reclaiming their bodies.” Sam gives him a half-smile. “Of all the coping tactics in the world, it’s not the worst you could’ve gone for.”

Bucky coughs out a laugh. Without thinking, he runs his hand through the ugly, uneven mess he left behind. It feels as bad as it looks, but at least this time he isn’t imagining a hundred other hands touching him at once. “Gotta say, I think I look less empowered and more like a three-year-old that just learned about scissors.”

Sam doesn’t laugh. He just narrows his eyes, looking thoughtful. “I could fix that, if you wanted. You got clippers?”

He doesn’t look like he’s joking. “Yes?”

“It’s your call, but I used to give the guys in my squadron trims." He smiles, just a bit. "Lots of experience with white boy hair.”

Bucky closes his eyes. The pain in his head has increased to a steady thrum. His eyes physically ache from the intensity of the crying jag, and his face burns hot, dirtied with dried salt. He wraps his fingers around a short lock of hair.

There’s no comfort to be had here. He took that from himself. And he survived, and now he has to deal with the aftermath.

If nothing else, at least he’s (probably) too worn-out to panic when someone else touches his hair. That might not be the case after he’s fully rested.

“Yeah,” he says, opening his eyes. “What the hell. Thanks, Sam.”

Sam stands and extends a hand, pulling Bucky up onto unsteady feet. “Don’t mention it.”

They end up in his bathroom, Bucky seated on the edge of his tub with paper on the floor to make the cleanup easier.

“What are you thinking?” Sam asks. “Buzz it all? High ‘n tight? I’ve never tried, but I could probably do a mean mohawk.”

Bucky hesitates. More than anything, he wants to feel like a person. He wants to feel like himself, without the threat of HYDRA coming in and ripping him apart.

Except that threat is always going to be there, and he doesn’t know what it means to be himself anymore. He’s so fucking tired, too tired to imagine a future where things are really, fully okay.

But he can recall a time when he knew who he was. And he knows he shouldn’t keep living in the past, shouldn’t think of all the things—the people—he’s lost, but he really needs something to hold onto right now. Even if that something is just the memory of what he used to be.

“D’you think you can make it look like it did before? Before everything, I mean. Before the Soldier.”

Behind him, he hears Sam pulling out his phone. A second later, he says, “I’m only working with clippers, and I don’t wanna pretend like I’m some kind of JVN, but yeah. I think I can get pretty close.”

Sam works quickly and confidently. He operates the clippers with one hand; the other lies on Bucky’s shoulder, probably so he won’t shake as much, only occasionally reaching up to turn his head this way or that. But it’s—nice, to be touched and not have it hurt. And if Bucky leans into it more than he should, hell, it’s not the most embarrassing thing Sam has seen from him today. 

Who knows when, or if anyone will ever touch him gently again. He knows better than to take such gestures for granted.

“Look at me?” Sam asks, so Bucky turns around. Sam scrutinizes him, touching his hair on both sides, and nodding to himself. He goes after Bucky’s sideburns and makes a few more adjustments.

“All done. Just need some pomade and you’ll be giving Cary Grant a run for his money.” Sam extends his hand, helping Bucky up once more. “I’m gonna go get a broom. Take a look, let me know what you think. If you don’t like it, we can fix it.”

“All right. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sam claps Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky can’t recall him ever doing that before. He doesn’t let his surprise show; doesn’t want it to be mistaken for dislike.

As Sam leaves the bathroom, Bucky steps up to the mirror and looks at himself for the first time in five days.

He looks terrible. His skin has taken on an ashen, waxy tone. There are lines etched beneath his bloodshot eyes and across his brow. In other words, the image he gives off is just as exhausted and unhappy as he feels.

But his hair…

Sam wasn’t kidding when he said he knew what he was doing. The sides are short and even. The top isn’t quite as long as it was back before he went to war, but it’s close. 

If he lets his eyes lose focus and his vision blur, focusing on the overall picture in the mirror instead of all the damning details, he looks like the man he saw in the Smithsonian all those years ago, laughing alongside his best friend. He looks like someone who never thought he’d live past the war, never thought he’d find himself trapped in a lonely future. He looks like someone who belonged somewhere, once. He looks like a ghost.

He looks like himself.

Suddenly Bucky has to hold on to the counter to stay standing. His throat feels thick; if he looks at his reflection closely, he knows, he’ll see tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Part of him feels like he isn’t the man in the mirror. His appearance is just another disguise put on to pretty up all the pieces that HYDRA broke him into. 

But there’s another part of him that says this is exactly who he is. The vain boy from Brooklyn who preened over his hair before dragging his lover dancing. The soldier with the miserable eyes. The survivor, dizzy with exhaustion and with the strain of putting himself back together again and again, but still standing here now.

He can work with this, he thinks.

“Hey.” Sam appears in the doorway, broom in hand. “Is it okay? Need any adjustments?”

“No.” Bucky swallows and steps away from the counter, shaking himself of the stupid existential reverie. “I mean, no, it doesn’t need to be fixed. It’s good. Thanks.”

“Great.” Sam nods, leaning against the doorframe. “Look, I can clean up. Why don’t you go lie down? I get the feeling it’s been a hot second since you slept last.”

He doesn’t have the energy to really smile, but he does his best. “You’re not wrong. You don’t need to clean, though. I can do it later.”

“Nah, it’s fine. There’s really not much to do. Go get some rest.” 

Sam steps aside to let Bucky pass out of the room, but Bucky finds himself hesitating in the doorway. He licks at his dry lips, trying to find the right words.

Something in Sam’s face shifts, softens. “Hey, you mind if I hang around? I’m not really feeling a drive back to DC right now.”

On another day, it might bother Bucky that Sam could read him so easily. Now, all he can do is nod, grateful beyond words to think that maybe he won’t be alone when he wakes up. “Yeah. Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.” Sam slips past him into the bathroom, pausing only briefly to squeeze his shoulder. “Sleep well, Barnes.”

When he’s rested, Bucky thinks, curling up in his bed, he’s going to have to figure out how to make this up to Sam. Because he really fucking owes him after today, and Sam deserves a better friend than he’s been.

But he’ll wait until his mind is firing on all cylinders to figure out exactly what that will look like. His eyes are already closing, whatever defenses that kept the weariness at bay falling all at once.

Without thinking, Bucky reaches up with his right hand and tangles his fingers in the longer strands on the top of his head. His thumb rubs small circles into the shorter hair on the sides. And sleep, when it takes him fully, comes deep, dreamless, and peaceful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading. you can find me on tumblr as [lies-unfurl](https://lies-unfurl.tumblr.com/). I am always in search of more Captain America/Bucky-centric mutuals.
> 
> as always, I would love to hear your thoughts -- it really makes my day to get the alert that I've received a new comment.


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